


Saturday In the Park

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [74]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Domestic, F/M, Horror, Kid Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-19
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 09:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An all-American holiday, with vampires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday In the Park

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series.

Spike's made a fireworks run down to Tijuana again. Firecrackers, skyrockets, roman candles, chasers - you name it, he's got it stashed in the trunk. She can tell from the furtive don't-tell-your-Mum winks and nudges he's exchanging with the kids, the way Bill's eyes light up and Connie bounces. When it gets dark he's going to make some lame excuse to load them all into the DeSoto (still his pride and joy, despite the jaw-dropping price of keeping it fueled) and head down to the beach to blow stuff up in blatant violation of the California State Health and Safety Code, Part 2, Chapter 1, Section 12500 et seq. And she's going to let him, because a vamp's got to get his evil on occasionally.

Right now? The sun's beating down like a golden hammer, but the back yard's a haven of deep blue shade. The air smells like dry grass and charring grease. Connie's playing _nyah-nyah I can go in the sun and you can't_ with her brother. Smack Bill's hand for snitching pieces of raw hamburger, remind Dad and Linda that the red stuff in the Kool-Aid pitcher really isn't, help Connie spread the red-and-white checked tablecloth over the picnic table, and hope to heck Spike doesn't set himself on fire with over-enthusiastic application of lighter fluid to charcoal and remembers that not everyone likes their burgers to scream when bitten into. And spear the Krevlach demon that comes sniffing around the cooler with a barbeque fork. All in a day's work.

Later, Spike's lighter flares on the dark beach, and skyrockets soar into night, bursting into illicit flowers of blue and gold. The kids jump up and down, whooping with glee, and their father grins that wild, wicked grin that only she remembers (and she never forgets) is dangerous. Out along the surf-line a row of scaled and whiskery heads bob in the waves, watching the show, each inhuman face limned in transient witchfire - and she wonders, briefly: if she called their names, would they remember? Or do they have new names now? But there are headlights swinging along the shore road, and Spike hustles them all into the car, breathless and laughing, and she's telling them all sternly that this is the last year she'll put up with this, she _really means it_ this time.

Straggling back from the beach, Dad keeps saying he wants to spend more time with the grandkids. So they take him at his word. From Kingman's Bluff you can see all of Sunnydale spread out below, a patchwork quilt of light and darkness. They drive up the winding road, giddy with momentary freedom. There's probably something up there that needs killing, and if it takes awhile to show up, well, it's been too long since the springs in the back seat got a really thorough testing.

The urgency of their first years together has mellowed. They have time. How much, neither of them can say, but: time. Time for kisses, long and slow and savory. Spike tastes like blood and charcoal, smoke and copper. Her fingers twine in gel-stiff curls, her hands rove over cool solid muscle: she likes the way his shoulders have filled out and the hollows of his cheeks have filled in, the way laugh-lines fan from the corners of his eyes when he smiles, the way she has to dig in now, just a little, to find the ticklish spot on his ribs. Official, city-sanctioned fireworks blossom in the air below them, their reflections dancing on the ivory curve of his shoulders, green and silver and red. Buffy lies back amid the dull gleam of leather and welcomes him in.

Angel told her once that she needed a life in the sun. He was half right.

END


End file.
